


at the edge of white

by SapphyreLily



Series: Tendrils of a Dream [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dream AU thing, F/M, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 02:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12245163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: There's a little fox at your heels, an eagle on your shoulder. Predator, predator, prey, neither one nor the other.





	at the edge of white

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bianoyami (poeticalcreation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticalcreation/gifts).



> I don't know okay, this was so odd but oddly fun to write. It's also hella confusing and I'm _sorry_

There, the edge of your vision, licking a paw, cleaning its face. Ah! It’s gone, darting out of sight, a play you didn’t know it could make.

You turn around slowly, hoping not to startle it, creeping towards where you saw it last. Hand outstretched, cooing, cooing, coaxing it out.

A flash, a blur of red-gold. Your eyes cannot follow it as it darts behind the next bush – oh, when did that bush get there?

How odd, you muse.

A prickly warmth around your legs, something curled around your calf. You look down, and another fox tilts its head at you, its fur tinged grey-brown.

You smile, and reach for it; it rests its muzzle in the palm of your hand, turning its head to the side, rubbing against your hand.

How tame, how adorable, you think–

And yank your hand back, clutching at the blooming pain. Your fingers peel back to reveal faint teeth marks on your bitten wrist, your eyes lift at the low growl.

The red-gold fox from earlier bares its teeth at you, posture low, threatening. The grey-brown fox sits behind it, and it looks almost unimpressed at its fellow.

The first fox barks at you, a high yelp. Its ears are flat back, and as you remain still, it backs away, batting the grey-brown fox in the face with its tail when it whines.

How very odd.

But your wrist is not bleeding, and the foxes seem happy that you are not following them. You don’t know what it is, but you are content to watch.

A yip, the red-gold fox nips the other, and they are running, spinning round each other, racing into the distance.

You don’t have the time to call them back.

\-----

There’s a large eagle in front of you, preening its feathers. You notice that the tips of its feathers are dark – stained black? Or born like that?

It lifts its head, fixing you with a stare. Its eye is dark gold, almost brown; intelligent, soul-piercing, and you almost want to dip your head in reverence.

The bird looks away first, lifting a wing to preen the underside, and you notice its large talons – sharp, dangerous.

Powerful.

A low rumble, something cold and spongy steps on your bare feet. It is surprisingly painful – a sharp ache. You look down.

The grey-brown fox looks up at you, ears high, swivelling left and right. It makes you smile.

You bend, but as you reach for it you see a gold blur.

Your instincts make you snatch your hand back, just shy of snapping jaws, the red-gold fox shooing its companion off again.

The eagle shrieks; you’d forgotten it was there.

It flies at you; you step back in a hurry, its powerful wingbeats buffeting wind into your face.

But as you move, you see how you were never its intended target; the foxes flee, tumbling over each other, diving into a crack you cannot see.

The eagle cries out, triumphant. It is almost too bright to look at, but the glimpse against the glare only proves what you know – it is magnificent, and it is yours.

It is yours!

Oh, what a lovely revelation.

Heavy wingbeats grow closer, and a weight settles on your shoulder, pinpricks of pain on your skin. You look up, at the eagle, and its sharp gaze. You look down, at your shoulder, at the pain that you expected but did not receive.

Ah, leather shoulder pads. When were you wearing those?

It doesn’t matter. Your eagle has protected you.

But still you look back at where the foxes disappeared, and wonder what business the grey-brown one has with you.

\-----

A pink-purple trail, the swing of a staff, your field of view dark, spotty. It feels like you are merged with your character in the game – that game that you spend too many hours playing – but the champion in front of you just won’t back off.

You think you see something at the corner of your eye, but you dare not look. It is too dangerous to take your eyes off your opponent.

A yip, and a sharp white appears at the feet of your opponent. Your gaze is drawn to it then, to the red-gold fox with its head between its paws, and the grey-brown one tugging at the edge of the white.

White? It looks like a tear.

The blow strikes you; you were distracted. But after you have gotten back to your feet, you don’t see the champion any more – where has it gone?

A tugging, at the hem of your pants. The grey-brown fox has you, and it pulls you, towards another edge of white you had not noticed before.

Where to? You want to ask, but it tugs, and tugs, and then there’s another – a more insistent yank, the viciousness of the red-gold fox.

So you follow.

\-----

It’s a shiny court, perfectly polished floors, high ceiling, white lights. You look around, but the foxes are gone – and oh. So is your armour.

How peculiar.

There’s a slight weight on your shoulder, and you turn– Oh.

Brown eyes, hair dyed silver, edging towards black at the tips.

_Oh._

The man takes your hand, leads you to the edge of the courts. Places a blue and yellow ball in your hands, lifts them up and straightens them.

You see out of his eyes, you feel the way he moves – the ball flies over the net, neatly.

It strikes the floor – a hard _thump_ that brings you back to yourself, and you are two again, individuals.

He smiles at you, and asks you to try again.

And you do – but there’s a blur on the other side of the net, the ball flies up, lifts off the fingers of another – and hits the floor on your side.

The man beside you _tsks_ audibly, striding off to confront the duo.

The duo, with bright blond and ashy grey hair, with undertones of mahogany.

_OH._

The blond, he snickers, tosses a ball – where’d he get it? – at the silver-haired man. Your instructor, he catches it with a huff, and the blond pulls the other away, laughing. You catch a glimpse of their faces – mirror images, though one is pulled up in a laugh, the other twisted with resignation.

Twins?

The blond trips, but catches himself on air, fingers hooking on a spot at knee-height. He falls sideways, fingers peeling away the image – another white gash, another rending of space.

You’ve seen this before, you think.

The blond turns back, catches your eye with a cheeky smile, then reaches into the white, and disappears. His twin shakes his head and follows, ducking out just before the silver-haired man reaches them.

Your instructor shakes his head, and you hear a slew of muttering from him – irritation, perhaps.

You look at the spot where the twins had disappeared, and you wonder.

\-----

Your eagle has gone hunting, and you watch the little meadow you are in – the little flowers swaying, the clover spreading around you like a blanket. You reach for one of the clovers – a white band in the middle of its leaves, its triple crown winking at you.

Something soft nudges your hand out of the way, and gold eyes peer at you from under a grey-brown coat. The fox reaches for the clover, taking its tiny form in its mouth – you let it do as it wishes.

A step back, a cock of its head, and there is a strong hand cupping your face, tilting your chin – you know those eyes.

The man with grey hair smiles a little at you, tucks something behind your ear. You reach up to touch it – ah, the clover. Your clover.

Our clover, he tells you, eyes crinkling in a smile.

You want to ask him more, but his head whips back, seeing something you can’t, and then the fox is darting away, over the edge of the meadow, over the stream. Out of sight.

A shadow falls upon you, a hand touches your shoulder, lightly. You look up, into the concerned eyes of the silver-haired man, and shake your head. You’re okay. The fox didn’t hurt you.

He doesn’t look convinced, but catches sight of the clover. He frowns at it, breathes a sigh, but shakes his head when you ask him.

It’s nothing, he insists, laughing, waving it away. It’s nothing.

But it has to be something, if he’s relaxed where he was tense before; not that he’ll tell you, not that he’ll tell you.

He kisses your forehead gently, and repeats himself – it’s nothing.

Is it really nothing? A gift from a fox?

\-----

Something is beeping, vibrating; something calls you back. You open your eyes; the quilt is heavy upon you, the blanket is trying to suffocate you again.

You push the covers back, trod blearily to your chirping phone, flick the screen and alarm off.

There’s a strip of light from under your blinds; the sun is up, and you must be too.

But even as you turn to make your bed, a little thought nags at the back of your mind: a slash of white, disappearing figures. Gold eyes, brown eyes, red-gold, grey-brown. Black-tipped silver, a band on clover.

You wonder what you were dreaming about.


End file.
